


Control the Storm

by Distracted



Series: The Things That Heal Us [4]
Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: F/M, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober 2020, maybe the start of something, no25
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distracted/pseuds/Distracted
Summary: Matthew Casey disappears to his quarters after a call and Sylvie seeks him out. He's in bad shape with a migraine and she helps him.
Relationships: Sylvie Brett/Matthew Casey
Series: The Things That Heal Us [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712512
Comments: 21
Kudos: 109
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Control the Storm

Control the Storm

She's seen them all through an injury or two, from the minor to the holy shit life threatening accident that made her heart crawl up into her throat. She knows them, knows Casey gets nausea when he's shocky, knows Severide seems fine right up to the point where he crashes, knows that if the boys are bitching and complaining they're okay. It's when they go quiet that she starts to worry. Which is why something about the way Casey retreats to his quarters after the call set her spidey sense tingling. 

She follows, slowly, in case she's wrong and he's fine and just taking a shower. The pinch in her gut is insisting otherwise and she wouldn't be half the paramedic she is without listening to it. They all know the drill but occasionally someone will try to slide an injury past the medics. It's not usually Casey though. 

The blinds are drawn in his quarters and the low level anxiety she's been feeling spikes into something sharper. She taps her knuckles sharply on the door and waits, counting impatiently to ten before she eases the door open. 

"Casey?" she asks and gets a groan in return. It sends a spike of ice through her and she has to swallow past it before she can speak again. "What's going on?" 

He's curled up on the bed, one arm clamped over his eyes, the other gripping the pillow under his head so tightly that his knuckles are white. What skin she can see is pale and clammy, jaw clenched so hard she's surprised that his teeth aren't creaking. His shoes are in a haphazard pile by the bed and one socked foot is digging in the bed. 

"Slyvie?" he mumbles. 

"Yep," she says and eases down next to him. He looks worse up close, not just pale but exhausted, with shadows etched deep under his eyes. "Migraine?" 

"Yeah," he grates out, and swallows hard. 

They've been through this before, a couple of times, and they've found a routine that works. This is the worst I've ever seen him with them though, she thinks. 

"Okay," she says and rubs his back gently. "Does the chief know? Did you get your meds?" 

"Yes and yes," he mumbles and covers his eyes a bit more tightly. Even the dim light in the room feels like it's a blowtorch slicing straight into his brain. 

She can tell that talking hurts but she needs to know. He licks his lips and swallows, gulping and she knows he's going to puke. There's a bag lined trash can next to the bed already and he rolls towards it blindly. She gets her knees on the bed behind him, supporting him, and feels his muscles get tighter with every dry heave. Beads of sweat dot his face, clinging to his eyelashes. His hands are fisted in the sheets, hanging on to them like he's in a storm and they're all that's keeping him from being washed away. 

She rubs his back, knowing she needs to grab supplies before he gets any worse. But I don't want to leave him alone like this, either. The retching subsides and she reaches for the bottle on the nightstand next to the bed, offering it to him. 

"Fuck no," he says faintly and pushes it away. "It'll set me off again." 

"Just wet your mouth," she says and offers it again. Dehydration is one of his main triggers and usually he's good at staying hydrated. The fire had been a bad one and they'd all been dripping with sweat before it was under control. She'd pressed a bottle of water on him, even seen him drink it. His electrolytes are probably off, she thinks and stands, leaving Casey curled on his side. 

"I'll be right back," she says and hurries to the ambulance, grabbing what she needs. Two banana bags, a dose of Zofran for the nausea, and a couple of ice packs. She fills her pockets with IV supplies and gloves and grabs a dose of Toradol. He normally manages without it but this one is bad, and the meds will help.

Severide is heading into his quarters when she starts back with the supplies. He stops, eying them and the closed blinds on Matt's side, one eyebrow lifting. "What's going on?" 

"Migraine," she says and bites her lip. "If this doesn't help, it might be a hospital job." 

Worry creases his face. "That bad? What can I do to help?" 

"Grab some blankets? And ask the chief to take 61 out of service for a couple of hours?" 

Taking Ambo off duty is a lot to ask, and she knows that. She also knows that Casey needs her help and there are plenty of other paramedics to pick up the slack for a bit while she gets him over the worst of the migraine. None of them want him to end up at the ER. 

"Sure thing," Severide says and ducks past her, heading towards the laundry room where they keep a stack of freshly laundered supplies. 

She opens the door, eyes fixed on the bed. Casey hasn't moved, still curled on his side, breathing a little strained. Just looking at him makes her hurt in sympathy. The lines of pain on his face could have been carved from stone. His shirt is a little damp where he's been sweating and he's shivering a bit in the cool air. 

"Hey," she says, pitching her voice low, and kneels by the bed. "If you can roll on your back for me, I've got some stuff that'll help." 

He blinks, visibly gathering his strength and eases over onto his back, one hand flexing at his side. His head feels like it's going to explode, and part of him wishes it would, put him out of his misery. Saliva floods his mouth and he knows he's going to throw up again. He's helpless against the wave, can barely turn his head before it swamps him and he's losing what little has remained in his stomach. 

Brett turns him just in time, pressing a sick bag to his mouth, rubbing soothing circles on his back. He's chalky pale apart from the bright spots of colour on his cheeks and his pulse is racing with the effort. His stomach convulses one last time and he turns his head, one shaking hand coming up to rub his mouth. There are galaxies stampeding through his brain, tearing him apart and he needs it to stop before there's nothing left of him. 

"Here," Sylvie says and activates a cold pack, wrapping it in a drape and presses it into his hand. "See if this helps." She seals the sick bag and drops it in the bin. 

He fumbles the ice pack up to his forehead. The cold is instantly soothing and it takes the edge of the pain enough for him to crack his eyes open, watching as she lays out the supplies. Aura makes the room swim in his gaze and he swallows miserably as nausea starts to churn in his stomach again. He's pretty sure there's nothing left to come up. 

"This is going to pinch," she warns as she slips some gloves on and opens the IV kit. He needs fluids and she's picked a larger bore than she'd normally use. 

"Just do it," he mumbles, tugging the ice pack down so it covers his eyes and blocks out the light. He shivers, suddenly cold, suddenly wishing that he was at home in his own bed. He can't remember a time when he was this miserable. 

Sylvie squeezes his arm. "Hang in there, Matt. I got ya." She deftly places the IV in his forearm, wincing when he flinches, then tapes it down and disposes of the needle. She hooks up the first bag and gets it running. "Okay, here comes the good drugs," she says and injects them both through the IV. "Just some Toradol for the pain and Zofran for the nausea." 

It's a cocktail he's had before and he knows that it works. Some part of his brain is grateful that she's remembered, because he's in no state to tell anyone anything about his medical history. 

The meds wash through him, already blunting the pain. A wave of lethargy follows it and he gives into it gratefully, letting it pull him into a doze. It’ll take real deep sleep to shift the migraine entirely but he’s not there yet, as much as he longs for the oblivion it would provide. 

The door to his quarters opens and he fights the urge to open his eyes, sit up, to see who else is seeing him in this state but the pull of the drugs wins out and he lets go, floating somewhere between waking and sleeping. 

“Here,” Severide says, keeping his voice low, and passes a couple of blankets to Sylvie. “How’s he doing?” The other man looks like hell and it hurts that he can't do anything more to help. 

“Better than he was.” She takes them and shakes one out over Casey. The room is chilly and she knows that if he’s cold, he won’t get the sleep he so desperately needs. The sight makes something catch in her chest and she covers it by unfolding the other blanket and putting it over him too. “He had me worried, this time.”

“He’s got us all worried.” Severide rubs his face, then shakes his head. “Damn man has more lives than a cat.” He sighs, unable to keep his eyes from drifting to his best friend’s face. “Boden has cover for you and Casey for the rest of shift. He says to finish up any outstanding paperwork.”

The ball of tension in her gut eases slightly now she knows she won’t be pulled away from her patient on a call. “Thanks.”

Severide nods. “No problem. Matt makes sure we’re alright. We owe him the same decency.” He pats her shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything.”

"I will," she says and gives him a brief smile as he ducks out of the door, closing it gently behind him. 

Matt's eyes are closed and his breathing is slow and regular but she knows that he's not asleep. There's enough tension in his jaw to crack walnuts and she'd put good money on his neck and shoulders being the same. It's where he carries his stress and it isn't helping his migraine to go away. 

She rubs her hands together, debating whether a back rub would cross any boundaries. 

He shifts on the bed, the movement dragging a pained breath out of his chapped lips and she decides that she doesn't care. She lifts the chair and carries it to the bed, setting it down. 

"Hey, Matt," she says and touches his arm. 

It takes him a few seconds to open his eyes and when he does, they're slightly dazed as they track to her face. 

Whoops, she thinks maybe he was more asleep than I thought. 

"Sylvie?" he makes her name a question, voice rough, and she gets that strange pinch in her chest again. 

"Everything's okay." She smiles at him. "I just want to try something new and didn't want to spring it on you because it means kinda getting in your face."

It takes him two tries but he eventually manages to pat her arm with his free hand. "I trust you," he says, eyes meeting hers, open and startlingly honest. 

It dries her mouth in a wave of emotion that she can't quite manage to name. It fills her in a rush of warmth, bringing a lump to her throat. It's affection, more, much much more than she feels for any of her other colleagues and the implications behind it terrify and intrigue her in equal measure. 

"Okay, here goes," she says, reaching towards his face with both hands. Stubble scrapes under her fingers, rasping against her skin and she suddenly wonders how it would feel against other parts of her body. The thought shocks her, brings a rush of heat to her cheeks. 

"You're blushing," he mummers, sounding faintly puzzled, but his eyes are heavy lidded and he blinks, then just lets them close, too exhausted to even try to figure it out. Her fingers move in small circles on the big muscles in his jaw and he yawns, the aching tension there suddenly releasing. 

Her hands move to the back of his neck, working on the long muscles there. She's leaning over him, close enough for him to pick up the subtle scent of her perfume, something soft and sweet and a little musky. 

He's never noticed it before and now he has, he likes it. The tension is draining from him and he's on the edge of sleep, head still throbbing but in a distant, disconnected way that's much more bearable. 

"How are you doing?" she asks, fingers working away at a knot at the base of his skull. 

Between the migraine and the drugs and the fact that if she keeps the massage going he's going to be asleep in about ten seconds, he can't find words so just hums in approval. 

The stubborn knot finally gives under her hands and she moves on to his shoulders, feeling his breathing change as he finally gives into sleep. She eases back, not wanting to disturb him, and checks the IV bag, slowing the rate now that most of it is in him. 

His body is relaxed in sleep and she knows he's likely to be that way for a while. It's been a long shift so she toes her shoes off and props her feet on the bed next to his hip, tipping her head back to rest against the chair back, intending just to rest for a moment before she gets up and finds her paperwork. Sleep steals over her before she knows it. 

Minutes or hours later, Severide eases the door open, having been sent by Boden. They're both still asleep and he backs out, retrieving another blanket before returning to throw it over Sylvie.  
The sight of them napping is precious and he takes a quick pic on his phone before leaving them to it. 

Shift change rouses Matt and he blinks, spreading a moment catching his bearings, mouth quirking into a smile at the sight of the sleeping woman. 

"Hey," he says, and tweaks her foot, waiting until her eyes open. "Thank you." 

She smiles, still sleepy, and it's the cutest thing he's seen in a while. "You're welcome."


End file.
